


Bed-sharing, almost-caring

by Thei



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy is not okay, Huddling For Warmth, Hypothermia, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Steve is sent out to look for him, Suicidal Thoughts, after the mess with the mindflayer, he finds him at the quarry, ice ice baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:42:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22453618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thei/pseuds/Thei
Summary: It's late, dark and snowing, and Steve would rather do anything else than drive around looking for Billy Hargrove. But Max asked, and he can't say no to those kids. Not after everything.He finds Billy at the quarry.Billy is not okay.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 62
Kudos: 479





	1. Steve: Searching, finding

Steve should really hang out with more people his own age. Or at least learn how to say no.

This was what he was telling himself, driving down the streets of a sleeping Hawkins at a quarter to midnight on a Thursday, peering out through the windshield and trying to look past the swirling snow to catch a glimpse of metallic blue in the darkness.

_‘I don’t know where he went_ , Max had said when she called him half an hour ago, _‘but he had a fight with Neil and then he drove off. It’s_ snowing _, Steve, and he didn’t take his jacket.’_

She’d been close to whispering into the phone, perhaps afraid to be overheard, but there had been an almost worried note in her voice. It was no secret that she and Billy didn’t get along when they first moved to Hawkins, but apparently things had slowly been improving since the spring. She hadn’t said much about it, just that he was still a dick – but she didn’t seem angry when she talked about him anymore, and sometimes she even seemed fond. Then came the summer, and the whole mess with the Mindflayer and the Tragedy at Starcourt.

That’s what they called it. The media, they called it the _Tragedy at Starcourt_ , and considering how many people died, it was a fitting name.

Somehow, Billy had survived, but he’d spent more than five months in a hospital out of state. When he came back in mid-December, he’d been pale and thin and with his hair cropped off – but still sporting the shitty attitude. Steve had only met him on a handful occasions since then, but it had been enough to convince him that not even possession and a near-death experience could soften the edges of one Billy Hargrove.

Okay, so maybe he had softened _a bit_. He didn’t initiate conflict anymore – every time they’d butted heads in the last month, it had been _Steve_ who had approached _him_ – and also Max didn’t complain about him as much anymore, and had even taken to defending his behavior at times. _‘He’s been through a lot, give him a break’_ – yeah, well, they’d _all_ been through a lot, but it had brought them all closer together. Billy was the only exception.

He was still an asshole, who didn’t take Steve’s outstretched hand. And Steve had tried, okay? He’d tried to be friendly, tried to make normal conversation – because he figured it was the least he could do after the guy stood up to a monster and saved them all, you know? But Billy shot him down every time, with a glare or a scathing comment, and sometimes a combination. So yeah. Billy hadn’t changed much since they were in school together. Steve didn’t know why he was so disappointed about that.

But Steve’s personal opinion on the guy didn’t matter right now. What mattered was that Max had sounded concerned over the phone earlier, and Steve – who couldn’t say no to any of those kids, after what they’d all been through – had agreed to take a drive around town, to see if he could spot the apparently-renovated Camaro.

To tell the truth, he wasn’t looking very hard. The snow made it difficult to see very far, and the wind made the snowflakes fly past the headlights with seemingly impossible speeds, giving him a headache. He figured he’d drive past the quarry once, just so he could say he’d tried, and then go home and go to sleep.

Only, when he got to the quarry, he spotted the car immediately – it was halfway down a ditch, with only its back end still on the road. He let out a curse, and parked behind it.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he dug around in the glove compartment for a flashlight, turned it on and got out of the car. The snow was ankle deep already, and he wasn’t wearing his warmest boots. Pulling the collar of his jacket up and twisting his body so he kept his back to the wind, he stumbled up to the driver’s side of the Camaro and peered inside.

Empty.

Turning the flashlight down, he saw tracks in the snow, leading down the road that led to the water. The tracks weren’t snowed-over, and there was less than an inch of snow covering the car. Billy couldn’t have left too long ago.

“I swear to god, Billy …” Steve mumbled to himself as he started following the tracks. What was the guy even doing out in this weather? And why the hell would he be going to the quarry, of all places?

As hard as it was to see in the dark and snow, at least it wasn’t hard to find Billy. Steve could hear him even over the wind. He was yelling something – but Steve couldn’t make out the words.

Billy must have seen the light from the flashlight, because he got quiet just before Steve reached him. He was standing at the edge of the frozen lake, just where the tree line ended, and when Steve shone the flashlight into his face he squinted and shielded his eyes with a hand.

He wasn’t wearing gloves, or a scarf, or a hat. His now short curls were wet on his forehead. Max had been wrong though; he _was_ wearing a jacket, only it was his jean jacket which couldn’t do much to protect him from the cold – especially as he hadn’t buttoned it up. His nose was red, his lips were almost blue, and there was a dark mark under one eye that Steve only caught a glimpse of before Billy turned his head.

“What are you doing out here, Billy?” he said, perhaps a little too gruffly. So sue him, he was cold!

“Harrington?” Billy’s jaw dropped and in the next second he threw his head back and laughed. “Shit, of course it’s you. Of-fucking-course.”

He raised the other hand – which, Steve now saw, held a bottle of what seemed to be vodka – and took a swig, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was still grinning, but turned away from Steve; towards the lake. He shook his head, as if he was finding something funny, and Steve felt annoyance wash over him.

“Yeah, well Max called me and asked me to find you.”

Billy didn’t even look at him this time, just took another drink and swayed when a particularly hard gust of wind threw him off balance. “Well you found me. Congratulations.”

Steve gritted his teeth, both against the cold and the irritation.

“She’s worried about you.”

That made Billy laugh again, but there was no joy in it. “Yeah, sure she is.”

“Okay, I don’t have fucking time for this. Come on, let’s go.” He reached out to grab Billy’s wrist, but Billy flinched back and stumbled a couple of steps away from him.

“I’m not going _anywhere_ with you. _Fuck_ you.”

“You can’t stay out here, you’re gonna freeze to death.”

Another joyless laugh, and this time Billy turned towards him. “Haven’t you heard? Us monsters like it cold.”

Steve felt himself shiver; suddenly cold for another reason entirely. His eyes widened and he unconsciously took a step back, raising his flashlight to Billy’s face. If the guy was still possessed, somehow, Steve needed to _see it_ –

– but the only thing he saw was Billy. Shivering, with glossy eyes and chattering teeth. The dark mark under his eye was the beginning of a bruise, or a black eye. The skin around the eye was swollen and red.

He didn’t look possessed. He looked cold, and a little pathetic.

“What happened to your eye?” Steve asked.

Billy smiled, but it looked like a grimace. “Nothing that I didn’t deserve, don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.”

That rankled, for some reason. “I’m not worried. I’m just curious.”

“Fuck off.” That was said with something akin to a sigh, and Billy turned away again. Face against the wind, closing his eyes against the snow.

Steve tried again. “Listen, you can’t stay out here, alright?” His feet were getting numb. He should have taken his better boots.

“Fuck _off_ , Harrington.”

“You’re gonna die if you stay out here, don’t you get that?” And Steve was _angry_ now. “Do you want to die?!”

A heartbeat, two heartbeats – and suddenly the pause was _too long_ , and felt like an _answer_. Then Billy shook his head, and stumbled another step away from him.

“Go away”, he said, almost too quiet for Steve to hear over the wind. And shit, that wasn’t a _no_.

“I can’t do that.” Steve followed him, something like worry twisting in his stomach.

Billy laughed again, a broken laugh, and held up the hand with the bottle in front of him, as if that would stop Steve from advancing. “Sure you can. It’s _easy_. Just turn around, and leave.”

Steve swatted the hand away, making Billy drop the bottle in the snow. “Can’t do that.”

Suddenly Billy was grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket and pushing him back, his face twisted into a mask of fury. Steve staggered backwards until his back hit a tree, and the breath left him on impact. Heavy snow fell down on them from the tree’s branches, and some ended up under Steve’s collar. That wasn’t his biggest problem right now, though.

Billy’s face was inches away from his. He looked almost manic, with his mouth twisted into a snarl, and smelling of vodka and cigarettes. Steve tensed in preparation for a punch – but Billy just held him there, breathing heavily, for several long seconds.

When Billy moved, Steve twitched, but he didn’t have time to react before –

– before Billy’s lips were on his, and _what_. Steve’s brain short-circuited, giving Billy time to put his hands on either side of Steve’s face and press his lips harder against Steve’s. Closed-mouthed and forceful, it wasn’t much of a kiss, but the fact that it was _Billy_ left Steve floundering. For a second that lasted an eternity, that was all there was; Billy _kissing_ him.

And then, Billy put a hand to Steve’s chest and backed away. Steve couldn’t see the look on his face, having dropped the flashlight in his surprise, but he heard him draw breath.

“What –“ Steve started, but didn’t get any further before he got a punch to the jaw that was so unexpected that he lost his footing and fell over in the snow. Pain shot up through his face, making him groan.

“What the _fuck_?!”

“Leave me alone, Harrington!” Billy yelled over the wind, having already backed away so far that Steve could barely see him in the darkness and snow.

Steve grimaced and touched his face. He didn’t seem to be bleeding, at least. Blinking snow out of his lashes, he stared out in the dark after Billy. What the fuck just happened?

His flashlight was halfway buried in the snow next to his feet, and he picked it up and brushed it off. Turning it, he could just barely see Billy’s back, walking away out onto the open plains of the frozen lake.

Billy’s lips had been so _cold_. Drunk and underdressed, he’d die out here if Steve left him. Like, he’d _actually_ die.

Steve couldn’t let that happen, even if Billy was an ass. An unstable, drunk ass.

So he got up, ignored his throbbing face, and started trudging after Billy’s tracks.

“Billy!”


	2. Billy: Running, grasping

“Billy!”

Fucking _Harrington_.

Billy’d thought he was hallucinating when he first saw the light from the flashlight – because who would be coming for _him_? – but then he heard Harrington’s voice, and it all made sense. The guy had a hero complex the size of Texas. Of course he’d show up just when Billy was trying to forget.

He should have known, though – it wasn’t any use trying to forget about his sins. He was constantly reminded of them, one way or the other. If it wasn’t his nightmares, it was his dad telling (and showing) him how useless he was, especially after the time he spent in the hospital. If it wasn’t his dad, it was looking in the mirror and seeing the evidence all over his body. If it wasn’t his body, it was the way his treacherous mind still _wanted_ things, _desired_ things – things he could never have, and would never, ever deserve.

And now – when he was all set on just going to sleep in the cold, and let the snow bury and hide him away from a world he wasn’t worthy of being in – Harrington himself showed up; the personification of what Billy shouldn’t want. A final slap in the face; proof that he wasn’t even allowed to die in peace.

It made him angry – so fucking angry. It was the kind of anger he hadn’t felt since before the Shadow. So before he knew what was happening, he had Harrington pressed up against a tree, frozen fingers fisted in his jacket, wanting to –

– wanting to –

God, he _wanted_.

He figured he had nothing left to lose now, so for the last time, he gave in. He’d be gone soon anyway, and he would never get this chance again. Would probably not even have time for regrets.

So he kissed him. Lips closed, eyes screwed shut, holding Steve’s face between his hands – it was less a kiss and more a … a _goodbye_ , maybe, or a last _fuck you_ to a world that had done nothing but tell him what a mistake he was, and always had been.

He’d been wrong about one thing, though. He _did_ have time for regrets. He realized immediately that he didn’t want the last thing he’d ever see to be the disgust in Steve Harrington’s eyes, so he did what he should have done a minute ago.

He threw a punch and ran.

He stumbled out onto the lake, with snow whirling all around him. Leaving the trees and the shoreline and Harrington behind. Hoping to get lost in the darkness one last time.

He was freezing – could barely feel his face. He was unsteady on his feet, not only because of the alcohol, but also because he was only wearing sneakers and his feet felt like blocks of ice by now. He was so cold, it bordered on painful.

In a way, it was a soothing kind of pain. The Shadow had liked the cold; had made sure that Billy’s body wasn’t bothered by it. Had made him _crave_ it. So it was a relief, now, to feel the bite of icy winds against his skin, and to actually shiver. To try to bend his fingers and find that he couldn’t quite manage. To know, with absolute certainty, that if he was to lie down in the snow right now, his heart would eventually stop beating.

The Shadow might have liked it cold, but Billy hated it. Which was why he’d found it so fitting to drive out here tonight, after his father had laid into him. Billy hated the cold, but at least this time, he _chose_ it.

“Billy! Wait!”

He groaned to himself and looked over his shoulder. There, in the distance, was a moving beam of light. The flashlight, following his tracks. Other than that, he couldn’t see anything but moving snow and blackness. No trees, no stars, nothing.

“Go _away_!” he bellowed into the wind, not knowing if Harrington could hear him, and not really caring. He sped up. Tripped, and fell into the snow. The world spun.

Had he been alone, this is where he would have stayed. He would have rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes and let the falling snow erase him from existence.

But.

“Billy!”

He got up on all fours and shook his head like a dog before looking back. The flashlight was still moving; closer now.

“Leave me the _fuck alone_ , Harrington!”

“Can’t do that, Billy!”

With an almost-sob, Billy got to his feet and started running. But he was too tired to get very far. Too drunk. Too useless. He fell to his knees in the snow and didn’t get up again. Waited for Harrington to catch up with him – because _of course_ he’d be forced to see the loathing in his eyes, after all. It was nothing less than he deserved.

Only, Harrington didn’t come.

Billy’s hands were numb in the snow, and his jeans were getting wet. He was shivering, his teeth rattling so hard he could barely open his mouth to breathe. He expected a hand on his shoulder any second now.

But it never came.

Strangely, that was what made tears well up in his eyes. He hadn’t wanted Harrington to find him, had _wanted_ him to leave … but now he was alone again, and it felt ten times worse than only minutes ago. He knew he wasn’t the kind of person that people cared about, and he knew he didn’t deserve anything else, but – why was it so easy for everyone to _leave_ him?

Without meaning to, he looked back over his shoulder – and his heart lurched in his chest. The light from the flashlight, it was still there!

But something was wrong. It wasn’t moving. It was too still, shining up into the dark sky, illuminating the dancing snow above.

Billy felt numb. Perhaps Harrington left him the light? So he wouldn’t have to be alone in the dark, at least? It would be a mercy Billy hadn’t earned, but he was suddenly grateful for it. Sniffling, he got to his feet and unsteadily made his way back towards the flashlight.

When he got closer, he saw something moving just beyond it, and he flinched back – too aware of what normally dwelled in the dark in his nightmares and memories. Then he heard the splashing.

Water?

Mind numbed by alcohol and cold, it took him a few seconds to realize what had happened. When he did, his eyes shot open and he stopped breathing.

Lake. Ice. Water. Harrington.

Harrington had walked through the ice.

He threw himself down in the snow and scrambled for the flashlight. Caught it with unfeeling fingers and twisted it towards where the sound had come from. There was a disruption in the snow perhaps ten feet away, and as he watched, a pale hand came out of it and tried to grip the edge of the ice. But it broke off, and the hand disappeared again.

Billy’s heart skipped a beat, and he let out a stuttered breath as panic washed over him.

“Harrington!”

He crawled through the snow towards the hole in the ice until he could reach the edge of it. He shone the flashlight down into the black water, and saw fingers breaching the surface. Without thinking, he threw the flashlight to the side and grabbed the hand. Pulled.

Because Billy might not deserve to live – but Harrington did.

The ice broke at his elbow, soaking his arm in water that felt like a thousand icy needles, and for a second he thought he’d get pulled down too. But he crawled backwards and kept tugging, dragging the hand with him. Another hand fumbled out of the water, and then a pale face emerged, gasping for breath, coughing.

Billy kept crawling back, kept pulling. Grabbed a hold of Harrington’s other hand, pulled back until he was hanging on the edge of the hole. But then he couldn’t pull anymore – he just didn’t have the _strength_ , and he felt panic rush through him.

He’d been powerless his whole life. He’d hurt people, been _made_ to hurt people and been unable to stop it from happening. He’d had to watch as his hands caused death after death after death – but he’d been _used_ , then. Something else had been in control of his body, used it as a tool. Now, he was suddenly terrified that he’d have to watch someone die when it would be _all his fault_.

“No!” he gasped and squeezed Harrington’s hands. “Kick your feet.”

He couldn’t see Harrington’s eyes – he’d lost his hat and wet hair covered half his face – so he didn’t know if Harrington could hear him. He said again, louder, “ _Kick your feet_!”

Harrington did. Billy pulled, and used every bit of strength he had. A piece of ice broke off and Harrington went back under the water for a second, but Billy swore and kept pulling. Harrington kicked his feet, and the broken piece of ice proved to be a blessing as it stuck between Harrington and the edge, and helped slide him onto the flat surface of the ice. He stopped moving his legs when his chest was out of the water, but by then it didn’t matter because Billy dragged him the rest of the way, somehow. Pulled him away from the hole, inch by inch, through the snow, until Harrington rolled over and coughed up water.

Billy’s heart beat like a drum in his chest. His torso ached. Everything hurt. He was _so cold_. But if he was cold, Harrington must be feeling a hundred times worse. He turned his head and found Harrington on his side, curled up and shivering violently.

“You okay?”

Harrington didn’t reply, which kicked Billy into action. Crawling back for the flashlight, he grabbed it – between both of his hands, as he couldn’t make his fingers bend the way they were supposed to – and brought it back.

Harrington was deathly pale. He was soaked through, his lips were blue and his eyes were closed. He was shaking in the snow, as if he was having a seizure. Billy nudged his shoulder.

“Harrington?” No reaction. Just shivering. He pushed harder. “Harrington!” A groan, and a weak cough. Good enough.

Billy looked around in the dark, desperately, but all he could see was the blackness of night and whirling snow. They needed help. They needed to get out of here, and get to a hospital. He needed to get Harrington some _help_. But his car was in a ditch and he wouldn’t be able to get her out of there without help, and Harrington was in no condition to lend a hand. But Harrington … he must have come in a car, right?

“Harrington”, he said, shaking his shoulder. “Harrington, where’s your car?”

“C- car?” Harrington didn’t sound as if he understood the question. Fuck it, he could follow the tracks in the snow.

“We need to get out of here.” He looked the other boy over. “Can you stand?”

Stupid fucking question. Harrington didn’t even look like he could open his eyes properly. With much effort, Billy got to his feet and bent down to grab at Harrington’s wrist. He was colder than Billy, which was saying something since Billy could barely feel his own hands. “Get up.”

It was a herculean task to get Harrington upright, and Billy might have blacked out because he couldn’t remember how he managed it. But then he was standing, flashlight tucked into the hem of his jeans and with Steve mostly hanging off his shoulder, and now all they had to do was get back to Harrington’s car somehow and –

Billy froze. “Where are your keys?”

Harrington managed a questioning noise, and Billy wanted to pull at his hair. “Your keys, Harrington! For your car. Where are they?”

“J-j-j- jack-et p-p-pock-et”, was the answer, and Billy reached over with the hand he wasn’t using to hold Harrington up.

Harrington’s jacket had two pockets. None of them had a zipper. And none of them contained any keys.

“Fuck!” He stared towards the dark hole in the ice and wondered if the keys was on the bottom of the lake now, or if they’d disappeared earlier, when Harrington was chasing him through the snow. Either way, there was no way they were gonna find them.

He didn’t know how to hotwire a car. Even if they got to Harrington’s car, they wouldn’t be able to get out of here. It was the middle of the night. He doubted anyone would drive up to the quarry at this time of night, especially not in this weather.

Basically, they were fucked.

“F-fuck!”

He wanted to cry, but he didn’t have time. He had to figure something out. Had to get Harrington to safety, because Harrington _couldn’t_ die, not when it was _Billy_ who was supposed to –

“C-c-ca-bin”, Harrington stuttered, and Billy looked down at him. Harrington’s head was hanging so his chin was touching his chest, but he made an effort to nod out in the darkness. Towards the opposite side of the lake. The opposite way to where they came from.

“What?” Billy said, but as the word left him, it hit him.

He felt as if someone was squeezing his throat. He couldn’t get any air into his lungs, and it wasn’t because of the wind.

 _The cabin_.

He remembered the cabin. He’d had many nightmares about the cabin. The cabin was where the Shadow had him confront the girl, Eleven. The cabin was where the Shadow monster – the one made out of flesh and death – almost killed the kids. The cabin was where many of Billy’s night terrors over the last six months had taken place.

He had never actually been there, physically, but he knew – because the Shadow had known – where to find it. It shouldn’t be that far. Across the lake, up the hill and through the trees – it might not even be much further than the cars, and the cars wouldn’t help them now, anyway. At least in the cabin, there was a chance they’d find shelter from the snow and the wind.

He _really_ didn’t want to go to the cabin. But what other choice did they have?


	3. Billy: Fighting, refusing

It was so fucking cold.

That was all Billy could think of as he struggled through the snow. Harrington was hanging almost listlessly off his shoulder, while trying and not always succeeding in shuffling his feet along.

_So fucking cold._

It was good, in a way, that that thought was the only thing on his mind. Because that meant that he _wasn’t_ thinking about how Harrington could barely walk, or how heavy the other boy was getting, or how tired he was, or how he wasn’t even sure if he was going in the right direction.

He only noticed they’d left the lake behind when hit his shoulder against a tree and almost lost his grip on Harrington’s sleeve. It was a relief when the wind died down, as they left the plains of the lake behind, but dragging Harrington along uphill was a lot harder. But he wasn’t thinking about it.

He just took one step. And then another. Another.

Perhaps he’d made the wrong choice. Maybe they should have tried for the cars after all. Could have smashed a window or something. Taken shelter. Out here, there was no shelter to be found if they didn’t find the cabin. And it was dark. The flashlight didn’t help at all, when Billy needed both his hands to keep his hold on Harrington.

The snow wasn’t as deep among the trees, but it hid uneven ground, and it didn’t take long before he stumbled on a root and crashed to the forest floor and got a face full of snow. He might have hit his legs, his elbows, his head – but he couldn’t feel it. Everything hurt, so nothing hurt. Harrington groaned at his side, and almost didn’t help at all when Billy cursed and tried to get him up again.

“Get up, Harrington, come on, you lazy fuck …”

Anger was more useful than despair, so Billy got angry. He let himself feel how much he hurt and how exhausted he was and how unprepared he was to deal with this _just long enough_ for him to blame Harrington for it. Just long enough for him to get the boost he needed to heave Harrington up again.

And then he gritted his teeth, and continued.

He kept walking when the ground finally evened out. He didn’t even notice, at first. Kept his eyes on his feet, just glancing up now and again to make sure that they were walking in a somewhat straight line. The Shadow had found the cabin when they didn’t even know it existed, so Billy would find it now. He _would_.

The snow was white, which meant that even in the oppressive dark, the snow stood out as a dark gray against the black of the trees. That was the only reason why he didn’t miss it, in the end.

The cabin was just a darker shape against the snow, but it was enough to make it stand out. Billy walked closer, step by agonizing step, and let go of Harrington’s waist only to reach out a shaking hand. He would have sobbed in relief when his fingers touched the wooden planks, if he’d had the energy to spare.

They almost fell twice, just getting around the house. They fell for real when they reached the porch. Billy slipped on the first step and lost his footing, and they both went down. Billy smashed his chin on the porch floor and saw stars, and for a second or two he thought he was going to pass out. But it subsided, and although the world tilted and he could taste blood in his mouth he got his arms under him and pushed himself up.

Harrington was lying still beside him. Too still.

“Harrington?”

No answer. He wasn’t even shivering anymore.

Billy wanted to reach out, to shake the other boy awake – but he didn’t dare to. Because if Harrington didn’t wake up … He didn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t get Harrington to wake up.

With the help of the porch railing, he got to his feet. The door was locked, and he _did_ let out a sob, then. The flashlight – which he almost dropped before he managed to turn it on – revealed a wooden door and what must be windows, boarded up with plywood. He tried prying the plywood off, but he could barely move his fingers and was starting to worry that he would actually break them off, so he went for the door instead.

He smashed his shoulder into it, desperately, four or five times, and was more than surprised when it worked. The door swung open and he crashed to the floor, all air leaving his lungs on inpact.

Everything hurt and it was too fucking cold and he didn’t want to get up – he’d just lie here for a bit, close his eyes –

– but Harrington was still outside. In the snow, and the cold, and he wasn’t moving. And Harrington _couldn’t die_ , that was why he’d dragged his sorry ass all the way up here.

With energy he didn’t really have, he got up on shaky legs and went back outside. Harrington was where he’d left him, and Billy absolutely refused to think of the possibility that he was … that he was …

He wasn’t thinking about it.

They had found shelter. He just needed to get Harrington inside, that’s all.

Bending down, he pawed at Harrington’s jacket – the fabric more frozen than wet, now, and stiff – but couldn’t get his hands to work enough to get a good grip. Letting out a hoarse curse, he sank to his knees and worked his arms underneath Harrington’s body, and locked them under the guy’s armpits. But when he tried getting him up, he found that he just _couldn’t_. So he half-pulled, half-dragged him along the wooden planks, inch by inch, with tears of frustration stinging in his eyes. By the time they were both inside the cabin he was gasping out broken, aborted sobs. He let himself fall back for a couple of seconds, Harrington’s unmoving form in his lap, while he screwed his eyes shut and tried to get it together. Then he took a shuddering breath, bit his lip, and somehow mustered up enough energy to crawl out from under Harrington and get to a standing position.

He swayed, but took a couple of unsteady steps to the door, to close it. It wouldn’t close properly, but he threw his body against it a couple of times until it jammed shut. Then he fumbled with the flashlight and looked around the pitch black cabin.

He couldn’t stop the full-body shiver at the sight of it here, for real. He _knew_ this place, knew it from his nightly terrors – but he didn’t have time to freak out. The good thing about him knowing this place was that he knew there would be a wood-burning stove here. Or at least there had been, back then. Shining the flashlight around the room, he spotted it in a corner.

The sight renewed his hope, and he bent over Harrington on the floor.

“Harrington?”

No answer. He slapped him (and his face was like ice). “Harrington!”

A small flinch was the only answer, but it was enough to make a wave or relief surge through Billy’s body. Harrington was still alive.

Now, to keep him that way.

Hurrying to the stove, he shone the flashlight around the area. There was a box of old firewood standing off to the side, which was half full, and he could have cried when he saw it. He fumbled in his pocket for his lighter, but it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in _any_ of his pockets.

Gone, then, somewhere between home and here. It didn’t really matter where. What mattered was that it was _wasn’t here_.

“Fuck!” he yelled and punched the wall.

The pain made his eyes tear up, but it also allowed him to focus.

Fact: he needed to get a fire started.

Fact: by some miracle, he had firewood and a wood-burning stove.

Fact: he _didn’t_ have a lighter.

But if there was wood and a stove, then surely, somewhere in this house, there must be something to light a fire with? Dragging his hand over his eyes (and there was a half-frozen curl on his forehead – when had he gotten it wet?) he blinked away the burning in his eyes and tried to think.

It was hard – because he was shivering with cold and had to bite down hard to keep his teeth from chattering, and his clothes were wet and stiff too, when had that happened? – but he took the flashlight between his hands and shone it around the room.

It looked abandoned, and dark. The windows were boarded up, and a glance upwards revealed the ruined ceiling which he knew he’d find there – where the Shadow’s flesh monster burst through – and it, too, had been badly boarded up with plywood. There was still furniture and things, most of which were covered with sheets or just pushed to the walls and stacked on top of each other. There was a bookcase – Billy pulled the books and knick-knacks out of it in search of something he could use, but found nothing – and a trunk that wouldn’t open.

Kitchen, then.

He staggered to the kitchen and almost tripped over a chair. Pulling out drawers and opening cupboards, he rifled through the contents, almost frantically.

“Come on, come on … _yes_!”

A box of matches, at the very back of a drawer. He opened the box with trembling hands; it wasn’t full, but there were probably six or seven matches still in there. Enough to get a fire started, surely.

The next problem arose when he’d returned to the stove in the corner. Billy was a city boy, and had never had to light a fire. He knew he needed something that burned well, so he brought a book back with him, but as he kneeled in front of the open stove, he found that he couldn’t light the matches.

He was _shaking_. He couldn’t move his fingers. Everything _hurt_. He was stuttering out his breaths because he was cold and useless and couldn’t even hold a fucking _match_.

He dropped three of them before he gave up trying to hold them using his fingers. Instead he put one on the edge of the stove, tip out, and held it in place by putting his hand on top of it. It was slightly easier to hold the box than the matches, so he tried to move the box instead –

– and broke three more before finally, _finally_ , getting a flame. In his surprise, he almost dropped it, but he managed to right it before it fell off the edge. He clumsily ripped off a couple of pages in the book and set them on fire before dropping the match, and then he reached down for more pages while stuffing the burning ones into the stove along with a large piece of wood.

For a couple of seconds, it looked as if the fire would die and Billy desperately stuffed more crumpled book pages into it to feed the fire. He put another, smaller, piece of wood on top of it, and watched as the paper went up in flames.

“P-please, please, please, come one, p-please, please … You-you useless piece of shit, _please_ …” He wasn’t sure if he meant the fire or himself.

He kept it up until the smaller piece of wood had actually caught on fire, and then he gently moved it closer to the bigger piece, hoping that that one would start burning as well. Adding a third piece, also smaller, he watched with a lump in his throat as the fire caught on. His hands ached this close to the heat – as if the nerve endings were thawing and trying to remind the rest of him how much they hurt – but he still had to fight back an urge to simply shove his hands into the fire, just because it wasn’t _cold_.

He’d made a fire. It was warm and orange and _alive_. Now he just had to get Harrington over here.

 _Harrington_.

In his desperation to get the fire going, he’d almost forgotten about Harrington. He was still lying on the floor where Billy had left him, and he hadn’t moved. Billy got to his feet on unsteady legs, stumbled over there and almost crashed to his knees at Harrington’s side.

“Harrington? Hey, wake up, man. I g-got a fire going.”

No reply. Billy tried to slap him again, but this time he got no reaction. Suddenly terrified, he thrust his hand under Harrington’s chin to feel for a pulse. He couldn’t find one, and he panicked until he realized that his hands were still frozen and unfeeling, with an almost electric sort of pain going through them when he tried to touch anything. So without thinking, he bent down and jammed first his nose, then his lips against Harrington’s pulse point.

Harrington’s skin was like ice, as cold as Billy’s nose, but he could feel a pulse against his lips when he’d moved. Weak, and slow, but there.

Billy needed to get him warm.

“Okay, Harrington, we’re g-gonna get you warm”, he said, getting no reply.

He knew where the bedroom was, because he’d _been here_ (without really being here), and while resolutely _not thinking about it_ , he went to check on it. He breathed out a sigh of relief when he saw there was still a bed, covered with a dusty sheet.

He ripped the sheet and blankets off, and dragged them out into the main part of the cabin. Dumped them in a pile next to the stove, and went back for the mattress. The mattress proved to be harder to bring – it was big and lumpy, and he was _so fucking tired_ , and he had a hard time getting a good grip. But it wasn’t as heavy as Harrington had been, and he managed to throw it down on the floor in front of the stove. He put another piece of wood into the fire, just to be safe, and then he went back to Harrington.

“Come on”, he rasped and painstakingly started pulling the other boy towards the mattress. “ _Fuck_ , come on.”

Harrington wasn’t pliant; he was tense, and stiff, and his clothes and hair were wet and frozen. It wasn’t good, Billy knew that, and he knew he had to get him out of his wet clothes. Still, it felt weird to start peeling layers off the other boy.

“Y–you’re not allowed to– to … gimme sh-shit about this later”, he stuttered, telling himself there _would_ be a later, at least for Harrington. “I’m just– trying to–“ _Help_. He couldn’t bring himself to say the word out loud. It might be the truth, but it would sound wrong coming out of the mouth of someone who had caused so much grief. Sacrilegious, almost.

Billy would be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t ever thought about stripping Steve Harrington of his clothes, but he had never imagined a scenario like this. Mostly, he’d tried to not imagine it at all, but sometimes he hadn’t stopped the thoughts in time, and let them run their course. After, it left him with a bad feeling in his mouth and a weight in his stomach, because he knew it was _wrong_.

But it could never be as wrong as an unmoving, pale Harrington with closed eyes and blue lips and nails that were dark against his pale skin.

Billy’s face crumbled.

“I’m sorry”, he ground out, because he was. So, _so_ sorry – for so many things – and there was no harm in saying it now. No one was here to hear him, anyway.

It was difficult, to get Harrington’s clothes off. There were buttons, and zippers, and a _belt_. Everything was frozen and cold, which made even pulling fabric – which should be easy – a trying task. He hesitated at the underwear, but as they, too, were wet, he figured he better take them off, as well.

He determinedly didn’t look anywhere near Harrington’s junk.

After, he rolled Harrington onto the mattress, and put the blanket on top of him, then the sheets. Covered Harrington from head to toe with only his face peeking out. Then he sat back, leaning his back against something that looked like a sheet-covered armchair, and felt exhaustion wash over him.

He found, now when he didn’t have to move, that his whole body hurt, like he’d thrown himself off a cliff and smashed against a thousand rocks at the bottom. He was shivering with cold and pain and fatigue, and found that the feeling of his own clothes against his skin hurt like a burning, only cold. They weren’t soaked through like Harrington’s had been, but they had definitely gotten wet. And now, they were chilling him to his core.

He remembered how one of his friends in California, when he told them that he was moving here, had cackled and said, _‘Well at least if you get hypothermia, you have a good excuse to crawl into bed with someone – you know what they say about sharing body heat!’_ and now, he found that he was considering it. Steve wasn’t moving. Didn’t look like he was getting warmer. And Billy, well. For every moment he spent here, leaning against the chair, he found it harder and harder to motivate himself into moving. If he didn’t do something soon, he might just close his eyes and sleep – like he’d originally planned on doing tonight. But if he did that now, the fire would eventually die and so would Harrington.

Sharing body heat. Maybe it would work. If not … well. Someone would probably find their dead bodies at some point and get the wrong idea. Or, in Billy’s case, the not-entirely-wrong idea.

It was worth a shot, though, if there was any truth to it. And it had nothing to do with Billy wanting to feel close to something – some _one_ – one last time, if he was gonna die. Nothing at all.

Taking off his own clothes was somehow harder than taking off Harrington’s had been. Billy had spent months in a hospital with slowly healing holes in his body – leaving behind ugly scars and twisted skin – and he’d taken to wearing clothes at all times now. He never looked down at himself when he was showering, and he avoided mirrors in general.

It wasn’t only out of vanity, although that was part of it. It was because it was a constant reminder of what he’d done, of what he’d let happen. And now, stripping down to his underwear in the dark cabin where he’d almost –

– where the _Shadow_ had almost –

Well. It was uncomfortable, was all. Not that he didn’t deserve a little discomfort.

Gritting his teeth, he kicked his clothes to the side and ripped the sheet off the armchair, throwing that onto Harrington, too, and coughing when it brought up a cloud of dust. He stuck another two pieces of wood into the stove – and the fire was so blessedly warm, he almost wanted to plaster himself against the metal – then put the flashlight within reach, and stepped over Harrington. Slowly, he crept under the sheets and blankets, putting himself between Harrington and the door.

“Don’t make it weird”, he muttered, not knowing if he was talking to himself or Harrington.

He pulled the blankets up to his nose – they were cold against his bare skin and he gave a violent shudder – and screwed his eyes closed.

Harrington still wasn’t moving.

Tentatively reaching out a hand – it was stinging, now, which he took as a good sign – he found Harrington’s back, and he was still so cold. With the fire and the blankets, why wasn’t he warming up? Was it too late already?

He put the heel of his palm against Harrington’s throat and felt for a pulse. Still there.

“I swear, pretty boy, if you die on me I’ll f-fucking kill you”, he muttered, and it sounded fake even to his own ears. _Pathetic_.

He shook his head in the darkness. Knew what he had to do, but was reluctant to do it.

“This is gonna get me in trouble for sure”, he whispered, mostly to himself, and scooted closer. Slowly, slowly, he reached out and wrapped one arm around Harrington’s chest, and when that didn’t wake him, he worked his other arm in under Harrington’s body and pulled him close. And it was like a shock to the system, because while Billy was cold, Harrington was a fucking _icicle_ , and it took Billy’s breath away.

(The _cold_ was what had him gasping. Not the feeling of someone else’s skin against his own.)

Well. If Billy was the warmer of the two of them, then at least that meant that he would be able to warm Harrington up. Hopefully.

He wrapped his legs around Harrington’s, and screwed his eyes shut in discomfort – Harrington was so much colder than he was, and he himself was freezing – and made sure both of their feet were tucked in under the blanket. He pulled one of Harrington’s arms back and placed his hand between them, hissing when it touched his stomach. Then he got as close as he could and failed to repress a shiver when he tried to relax his body.

“Wake up”, he found himself whispering, begging, into Harrington’s icy hair. “Please wake up, you piece of shit.”

***

Time passed, and although Billy felt absolutely drained, he didn’t let himself sleep. He didn’t dare to. He couldn’t let the fire die, and he was afraid that if he nodded off, he’d wake up cradling a dead body.

He’d been up and added wood to the fire twice (and brought over all the books, and smashed a chair against the floor to break it into pieces to produce more firewood – deadly afraid to run out) when Harrington started shivering. And Billy panicked.

Harrington had been lying still, and the ice in his hair had melted, and Billy had his hand on his chest to make sure he was still breathing – and then suddenly a shiver had spread throughout Harrington’s body. Billy’s eyes had snapped open in the dark, and he’d shot up, ready for anything. Anything, except for Harrington letting out a rattling cough and starting to tremble.

“Hey. _Hey_.” Billy leaned on his elbow and grabbed a hold of Harrington’s shoulder, turning him over. In the orange glow of the fire, he saw the way Harrington’s face was screwed up, as if in pain, and it made his stomach clench. Was he getting worse? Shit, was he _dying_? A moan escaped Harrington just as another full-body shiver wracked his frame, and Billy had enough.

Fuck the snow, fuck his still wet clothes – he needed to get help. He wasn’t sure how to get back to town from here, especially without a car, but he’d manage somehow. He was just about to throw the blankets back and leave, not caring about the fucking blizzard or whatever outside, when Harrington made a soft sound and pressed closer against him.

He froze. Held his breath.

Harrington was still shaking, but he also turned slightly and pressed his face against Billy’s chest. And Billy, suddenly, couldn’t breathe. Harrington’s nose and chin – and lips – were touching the biggest scar, right in the middle of his chest, and Billy couldn’t _breathe_. Then Harrington shivered again, and changed position. Nuzzled up under Billy’s chin, and moved an arm (with fingers that were still cold) so it was lying curled up against Billy’s chest instead.

“Harrington”, Billy tried, shakily, because Harrington wouldn’t _want_ this, if he was awake. Wouldn’t want to be this close to Billy, if he had a choice.

But Harrington didn’t react. Billy stayed unmoving; tense, barely breathing, hardly daring to swallow. He didn’t know how much time passed, but it felt like an eternity. Harrington eventually stopped shivering. Started breathing easier, and warming up.

And Billy wasn’t proud of it, but he let himself have this. Relaxed his body, wrapped himself more firmly around Harrington, and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling Harrington’s skin against his own. Now, when it was closer to a normal temperature, it made him feel … soft. As if _he_ had melted along with the ice. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get this, later, and he was well aware of the fact that he didn’t deserve it – but he couldn’t help himself. He selfishly stole this moment for himself, while trying to etch it into his memory so he could _keep_ it.

He stayed like that for a little while – which was more than he should have allowed himself – but eventually he had to get up again. He fed the fire, and walked into what he found to be another bedroom and emerged with a quilt that he dumped onto the mattress. He brought the flashlight to the closest broken window, and jammed it between the edge and the plywood, peering outside. The snow was coming down harder than before, even here among the trees. They never would have made it if they hadn’t found the cabin.

Shivering – not so much by cold, anymore – he returned to the mattress. Turned the flashlight off. Pulled the blankets and the sheets and the quilt over himself and Harrington once more.

When he finally did pass out, it was from exhaustion.

***

Billy jolted awake, sitting up fast and gasping for breath. This wasn’t new – he woke from nightmares most nights nowadays – but one look around and he felt terror work its way up his throat. _The cabin_. He wasn’t awake, he was still dreaming, he couldn’t leave, he was _back_ –

A sound from the side of him made him blink, and as he turned his head and looked (and _ow_ , _fuck_ , his neck hurt), everything came back to him. Harrington. The hole in the ice. The long walk through the forest. The cabin, the fire, Harrington’s pale skin.

Harrington.

Harrington was _awake_ , and looking up at him blearily from where he was tangled up in sheets and blankets. His hair was a mess and there was a darker mark on his jaw where Billy had hit him last night, and –

And Billy could _see him_ now, because a gray light was coming in through cracks in the ceiling, and parts of broken windows that weren’t covered by plywood. The cabin looked dull and uninhabited in this light, and the fire had almost gone out. The air was still cold, Billy noticed – because he was shirtless, and sitting up, having thrown off the quilt.

He was _shirtless_ , and Harrington was _looking at him_ , because Billy had spent the night wrapped around him, skin against skin, when Harrington hadn’t been able to stop it. Hadn’t been able to say no, or push him away.

 _Shit_.

Billy shot up from the mattress on unsteady legs, hissing as he moved and a second from falling over when his knees almost gave out. His whole body was sore. His skin felt too tight and his insides felt bruised and torn, like someone had run him over and then put him back together, but _wrong_.

Too late, he realized that he was just putting himself on display – his too thin, pale body with disfigured skin. Repulsed by himself, he turned his back, and only belatedly remembered that his back wasn’t looking any better.

Panicking, because Harrington would _see_ him and _remember what he did_ , he snatched up his shirt from the day before – still lying in a pile on the floor – and worked his way into it. It was still damp, and too fucking cold, and his body protested against the movements, making him suck in air through his teeth. But he got it on, and when he dared to look down at Harrington, Harrington was frowning.

He was probably disgusted. Any second now, he would say all the things that Billy already knew, but _really_ couldn’t bear to hear. How unfair it was that he had survived, how undeserving he was of it, maybe how the outside of him finally matched the ugliness that he always knew Billy carried within.

Billy was _tired_. He was tired, and in pain, and felt _too raw_ to be able to handle hearing that right now. He couldn’t. Not from Harrington. So he went on the defensive. Pulled up a sneer, born from practice and desperation.

“Finally awake then, huh, sleeping beauty?” He had to stop to let out a cough, but kept the disdain on his face. “About fucking time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Last chapter might be a couple of days. It's written, but I have some things to do during the weekend and may not be able to post. It will be up in the beginning of next week though, promise.)


	4. Steve: Waking / Billy: Drifting

Steve woke up from the cold, feeling warm. It was nice, and he snuggled closer to the source of the warmth, still half-asleep, letting out a little whine at the ache in his limbs. He could sense that he wasn’t alone, but he didn’t feel threatened and he had no desire to open his eyes to see who else was there. He was _tired_. A bone-deep weariness that he couldn’t explain and didn’t want to deal with. So he relaxed, and tried to go back to sleep.

But then there was a gasp, and the warmth that he had snuggled up to disappeared, making Steve jerk to the side and blink his eyes open.

The first thing he saw was Billy, but something was wrong. It didn’t look like Billy. He was just in his underwear, for one thing, and he was too thin. The Billy he knew didn’t look like this. Too thin, short hair, something wrong with his skin. Face bruised, avoiding eye contact. And he looked so gray, like all the color had been washed out of him. Actually, _everything_ looked kind of colorless. Steve rubbed at his eyes with one hand – and the effort it took was alarming – and when he looked again, Billy was struggling to get into a shirt. There was something off with his movements. There was something off about this whole thing, and Steve frowned. Was he dreaming?

But then Billy scoffed and gave him a look that was _definitely_ the Billy he knew. “Finally awake then, huh, sleeping beauty?” A rattling cough. “About fucking time.”

Steve groaned and pulled the blankets up higher – and that made him acutely aware of his own lack of clothing. He wet his lips.

“Why am I naked?”

His eyes roamed around the room – he didn’t recognize this place, where the fuck was he? – and landed on Billy, because there was no one else here.

“Why the fuck am I naked? What happened?!”

Billy stared at him, stricken, but before he got a chance to reply, Steve started to remember. He’d been out looking for Billy – _‘Well you found me. Congratulations’_ – and it had been cold and windy and snowy, and Billy had been … Had pushed him against a tree, and _kissed_ him, and punched him, and ran off in the snow. Steve had followed him, jaw aching, and then he’d –

– he’d fallen through the ice. The ground disappeared under him and he’d been swallowed up by something so black and so cold that he’d panicked. It’d been all-compassing, and he’d thought _This is how I die_ , and then someone had grabbed his hand and gotten him out of there. _‘Kick your feet’._ Billy?

“Billy?” He looked up, and Billy was still standing there, back ramrod straight, looking frozen to the spot. “What happened?”

Billy turned his face away. “You went through the ice.” Steve nodded, and was about to ask about what happened _after that_ when Billy sneered at him and added, “Like the fucking klutz you are.” And Steve … Steve got _angry_.

“Which I wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t ran off like a maniac, trying to get yourself killed!” Billy flinched, and it felt _good_ , so Steve continued. “After _kissing_ me and punching me in the face – what the fuck was up with that, huh?”

He sat up, leaned on his arms – they were shaking, threatening to give out, and why was he feeling so _weak?!_ – and glared at Billy. Billy just swallowed and looked away, trying to seem casual while wearing only a shirt and underwear, shivering in the chilly air of a drafty cabin with _holes in the walls_ , and –

– and Steve suddenly knew where they were. Hopper’s cabin. Shit. He looked up and spotted the part of the ceiling where the monster had come through, now patched up with thin plywood. He looked around and saw broken windows, boarded up, and covered furniture. Through the cracks in the ceiling, and the broken windows, he could hear the wind outside. One window that hadn’t been broken wasn’t properly boarded up, or it had fallen down – either way, Steve could see snow whirling past in the grey daylight outside.

Billy looked pale in the low light, but his eyes were hard when he replied. “Had to throw you off somehow, right?”

“You absolute asshole, I was trying to help you!”

“Well I didn’t want _or need_ your fucking help!”

Steve remembered Billy’s face from the night before. Him not wearing a hat, or a scarf. The redness of his nose. “Oh yeah? You would have frozen to death out there!”

“Well, _I_ wasn’t the one who almost froze to death, was I?”

Steve snapped his mouth shut and repressed a shiver.

He had some kind of vague recollection of leaning on someone – Billy? – and stumbling through the darkness with snow whirling past, just like it was doing outside now. But it felt like a dream. Mostly he remembered the cold. The terror. The way he couldn’t get enough air.

He remembered not thinking he’d ever wake up again.

And yet, here he was. Waking up. The ice in his veins now only a fuzzy memory. He looked around the room again, and this time he spotted his clothes in a pile on the floor. Billy’s clothes were in another.

They’d learned about hypothermia in school, ages ago. He knew that if someone fell through the ice, you had to get them out of their wet clothes. Had to get them warm, by any means necessary. If there was nothing else, you could use body heat. And apparently, someone had.

No, not someone. _Billy_. There was no one else here.

Billy had been next to him when he woke up. Billy had been _warm_. Had been _shirtless_. Steve had been _pressed up against him_.

But he had to make sure. “Did you –?”

“Did I what?” Billy wasn’t looking at him. His voice was rough, and ended with a cough.

Steve didn’t know how to ask that, so instead he switched gears. “How did I get here?”

“Walked.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember walking.” Only he did, vaguely. Stumbling, and snow, and skin that felt like it was cut open by a thousand ice shards.

“Well, _I_ walked”, Billy said, sounding almost petulant.”You … tagged along.”

“And then, what, you made the bed and took my clothes off and crawled under the covers with me?” Steve wasn’t really thinking about what he was saying. It was dawning on him that he had _almost died_. He’d fallen through the _ice_ , and Billy – probably – had gotten him out and gotten him to safety and gotten a fire started and warmed him up. Probably saved his life, because people _died_ from hypothermia. It was a jarring thought, and it didn’t make sense because possession or no possession, Billy was still an _asshole_. Unfortunately, these realizations made his voice tense, and his question came out sounding more like an accusation. Steve could see Billy’s walls go up in the face of it.

“Fuck this”, Billy said and reached down for his jeans, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Steve stared at him, mouth open. That’s when he realized that the jeans were dark in places – still wet, or at least damp. A glance to the window showed it was still snowing. Cold wind was creeping in through the cracks of the broken windows.

Billy was trying to put on his jeans, but almost lost his balance and had to lean on the wall. He was moving stiffly, jaw locked, as if he was in pain. Yet he put his pants on and reached down for his sneakers. Steve stared at them. They were standing in a little puddle of water.

“Are you _kidding_ me right now?” he said and gestured towards the shoes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting help”, Billy gritted out.

“The fuck you are.”

That had Billy looking up, at least. He scowled. “Excuse me?”

“You’re _actually_ stupid if you think you’re gonna put on wet clothes and walk out into a blizzard and be able to get help before you freeze to death.” But then again, Billy hadn’t seemed too concerned about freezing to death last night either, had he? Steve stared at him, mouth open as everything slotted into place.

“Do you _want_ to die?” he asked, and it came out softer than he had intended.

“No”, Billy said, and somehow made it sound like a lie. He opened his mouth to say something else, but closed it again.

“Really? ‘Cause it sure seems like –“

“ _Why do you even care?!_ ”

And Steve was _tired_. He was tired and weak and hurting and by the looks of things, so was Billy. He didn’t have the energy for this. He didn’t want to _do_ this.

“Because if you go out there right now, I’m gonna have to follow you again, and we’ll both die. Either that, or we’ll end up in this exact situation again, so let’s just save some time, okay?”

He threw the blankets back in a clear invite (and ignored the shudder as the cold air hit his skin), but just to make sure he was being clear, he added: “It’s cold as fuck outside. Our clothes are still wet. We can’t go anywhere until it’s stopped snowing, anyway. So just, get back here.”

Billy hesitated for what seemed like an eternity, so Steve patted the mattress next to him. It made Billy snort.

“You’re concussed”, he said, but took a step closer. His hands were shaking at his sides.

“Then shouldn’t you make sure I don’t fall asleep?”

Cheap shot, but it worked. Billy huffed out a breath, almost like a laugh, and took another step. Looked down at the mattress, then licked his lips and stepped around it, to the stove. He busied himself with adding some pieces of wood – that looked suspiciously like some smashed-up piece of furniture – to the glowing embers, making flames flare up again. Then he bent down and picked up Steve’s clothes, and started hanging them up over the backs of chairs and off the shelves of a bookcase without a word. Steve watched him do it, and wondered if he really _was_ concussed, because Billy was acting downright _domestic_.

It didn’t make _sense_. Billy had been an asshole since he rolled into town – loud and brash and unpredictable and violent – and then he’d somehow fought back against possession of a mind-controlling monster and physically stopped said monster from killing El, and perhaps the rest of them too. Later, when he finally came back from the hospital, he’d acted like the same old asshole he’d been before it all happened, and then he’d pulled Steve from certain death and carried him through the woods in a snowstorm and saved his life. And now, after being an absolute asshat _once again_ , he was hanging up Steve’s clothes to dry.

He kept going from one extreme to the other, and Steve couldn’t make sense of it. And right now, he was too fucking worn-out to try. He just wanted to go back to sleep, under the warm blankets and sheets that he was covered with. That Billy had, apparently, covered him with.

He shook his head. The whole world was insane. What was one more thing?

When Billy was done, he returned to the edge of the mattress, shuffling his bare feet a bit and curling his toes. He still didn’t say anything, and Steve patted the spot beside him one more time. Slowly, Billy bent to get down, but Steve held up a hand to stop him. Billy immediately tensed up and backed away.

“No, hey”, Steve found himself saying, irrationally afraid that Billy would bolt. “Just, you’re not getting in here with wet clothes on, are you? Because … just, _no_ , no way.”

Billy hesitated, again, before turning around and shimmying out of his jeans. He threw them over the side of an armchair, and stood with his back to Steve for several seconds before he hurriedly pulled the shirt over his head and hung that up too. He lay down at the very edge of the mattress and covered himself with a sheet as quickly as he could manage.

Not quickly enough to stop Steve from seeing, though. He was properly awake, now, and _looking_ , so he didn’t miss the way Billy held himself. How he seemed smaller, now. Thinner, for sure, and more pale. And the scars … they were kind of gruesome, and Steve had a sudden flashback of the monster stabbing Billy, again and again. Steve had been drugged back then, and hadn’t been sure if what he’d seen had been real, but he realized now that by all accounts, Billy should be dead.

They lay there tense and silent, at first. The only thing Steve could hear was the fire crackling in the stove and the wind from outside and how it sometimes rattled the door, or the plywood. Steve held his breath for too long, and started coughing when he finally drew in air. When the coughing fit ended, he found Billy frowning at him.

“Are you okay, Harrington?”

Steve was silent for a while before answering.

“Yeah”, he said. _Thanks to you_ , he pointedly didn’t say, but thought. He didn’t know what to do with it.

The fire and the blanket and the quilt eventually made a pleasant warmth spread through Steve’s body, and he turned his head to the side, watching Billy out of the corner of his eye. Billy was lying on his back, as far away on the mattress as he could get without being on the floor, and he had a sheet pulled up to his chin.

One single sheet.

Despite the fire, it was chilly in the cabin. There were holes in the walls, for fuck’s sake!

“Okay this is ridiculous”, Steve muttered and crawled closer. He threw the quilt and the blanket over them both, and ignored the way Billy startled. “If you’re gonna punch me for this, I’d prefer it if you waited until we’re both dressed, okay?” And then he slipped an arm over Billy’s chest.

Billy tensed up – so different than the loose body Steve had been snuggling up to when he woke up – but didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe, either, and for a moment Steve was worried that he’d broken him somehow. More than he already was.

He was suddenly aware of his hand hanging over the side of Billy’s ribcage, and there was something brushing against his fingers. He brushed his thumb over it, and realized that it was a scar just as Billy let out a gasp.

There was probably a lot that could be said right now. _Should_ be said. But it was warm under the blankets, and there was a comforting fire behind him, and he’d been to hell and back more times than he cared to consider. So for now, he just exhaled, put his forehead against Billy’s upper arm, and closed his eyes.

***

Billy eventually managed to relax, even after Harrington put his arm around him. When Harrington asked him not to punch him for it, he wanted to snort – because it wasn’t like Billy hadn’t been spooning the guy basically all night – but he didn’t dare make a sound. Too afraid to make this, whatever it was, burst like a bubble.

But after that? After Harrington closed his eyes and got comfortable? Billy found himself relaxing, if just by a fraction.

Harrington would live. Billy hadn’t caused his death – he’d managed to do something right, for once. Had finally been strong enough to save someone, instead of hurt. He was sore and stiff, his skin felt too tight and he was coming down with a fever for sure, but there was a sudden lightness in his chest that he hadn’t felt in … He couldn’t remember.

He was bone tired, lying under several layers of blankets and feeling the warmth of another human being seep into his skin – his mind was blessedly blank, and he could feel himself drifting. Perhaps he’d get lucky, and get a few hours of sleep without nightmares.

Just before he lost the fight against sleep, he thought he felt fingers in his hair. It might have been a dream, but he leaned into the touch anyway, making a noise of comfort in the back of his throat. A _good_ dream – it’d been a while since he had one of those.

And maybe he imagined it, and maybe it was just a part of the dream, but he thought he heard a snort and an almost fond “Fucking idiot” – and then he was out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not do a lot of research about hypothermia before writing this story, because I just wanted to write it and get it out of my head. I am afraid that some things are inaccurate.  
> If you are interesting about knowing more about hypothermia, let me refer you to my favorite fandom medic and these two posts in particular:  
> https://macgyvermedical.tumblr.com/post/114178896229/hey-umm-i-wanna-write-fanfiction-in-the  
> https://macgyvermedical.tumblr.com/post/190605647499/question-about-rewarming-with-moderate  
> In short: please don't walk through the ice, and if you do - learn how to help yourself and others!

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't plan on writing this. It was one of four ideas of a fic for an exchange, which I scrapped, but then like a week ago I woke up, NEEDING to write it. So I did.  
> As usual, it is unbeta'd and read through, like, once. If you spot any mistakes, feel free to tell me.


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